"It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat."

It is cold. He wears a wool topcoat.
Embossed with laurels and ribbons,
the buttons hang well at the cuff.

His knitted brow—two long furrows—
are pocked, trench-like between.
How are things, I ask. Fine

He says, the second time. You look
fine. Thanks, he says. He checks
his pocket watch—engraved

on the back. It ticks with the sound
of a grandfather clock. He fumbles
for smokes. I give him one.

Are you all right? You do
seem troubled. I’m fine, he says.